The Author of This Story is Shameless
by PHLover213
Summary: "Master, I have had such terrible nightmares! Will you sleep with me?" A lecherous grin. "I would be delighted to." ... Too many ExC epilogues make me an unfunny parody-writer. My take on an irritating cliché. Means a lot for you to read and review! :D


**I've seen this idea in different fandoms, and wanna try it here. So enjoy, keeping in mind that Christine and Raoul are supposed to be all in love and happy.**

**Well, sort of. Rated for breaking of the fourth wall . . .**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

Christine sighed as she moved once more through the awful fifth cellar of none other than the Opera Populaire. True, she hadn't actually made the deal with the Phantom to come back after he was dead – and further, she returned the ring as she left with Raoul de Chagny, the Vicomte and love of her life, and so there was actually no need for her to return seeing as, if we follow Lloyd Webber's plans, this Phantom is not even dead (though, by pointing this out, we break the fourth wall, and that's something we're not supposed to bloody do in fanfics!).

She heard a piteous sob (the author just realised that crying is not remarkably OOC for Gerik) and sighed, revelling in the sound of her Angel's voice despite the fact it was raised in agony.

Now, in the three weeks since she had last seen the Phantom of the Opera, she had obviously grown so that she was a very mature young woman, and certainly no longer looked like sixteen year old Christine Daaé, though that was precisely what she was. No, she was wearing a demure light-blue gown and her curly tresses were tastefully arranged, hanging over her shoulders, despite the fact that that greatly went against current social norms – who cares? She looked pretty!

The Phantom sat, dejected, wallowing in an appropriate amount of angst and sorrow that will put this fic in the Hurt/Comfort/Romance section. "Angst, angst, angst!" he cried sadly, his suddenly thick black hair hanging around his face, but in a completely attractive way, despite the fact he had been doing nothing for three weeks. "I am so upset!"

Christine walked slowly to his side. "Erik!" she said slowly.

He didn't look up, because that was not his name. He was the Phantom, as the film credits will gladly inform the reader.

"I mean . . . no, calling you Phantom is grammatically awkward."

Now the man looked up, because he was surprised at his otherwise blank former paramour showing the slightest bit of intelligent thought. "Oh, Christine, look at you! You no longer look like a high-end hooker!" he paused as she pouted and crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't trust you. Get out of my home."

She sighed. "_Master_," she said softly. "This is no home! You must leave here, with me! I am pregnant with your child!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Even though it has only been three weeks, and you can't possibly be because we did not sleep together?"

"Yes! Plot convenience, _mon ange_!"

"_Mon ange_? Since when is this your name for me? You've referred to me as _he_ for the past God-knows-how-long!"

"_Er-_"

"That's not my name, Christine."

"Get with the fanfic!"

"Oh, alright. Excuse me, Miss Snappy." the Phantom coughed and struck a dramatic pose. "Oh, Christine, my Christine, my life has been a bleak abyss of nothingness since you left me alone three weeks ago with nothing but this engagement ring to remember you by! I know that my attraction to you is caused only by my mental instabilities (among them, of course, is my unhealthy Oedipus complex and my craving for perfection despite the fact that I am possibly the most imperfect being on this earth) but I love you so dearly! Will you stay with me long enough for us to fall madly in love together and want to spend our lives together, completely leaving behind the rich, handsome and very well-mannered Vicomte who would give his life for you and never even consider abusing you though I, as a mentally unstable person, might be liable to?"

Christine sighed contentedly. "Oh, Phantom of the Opera, who I hide my feelings and sexual attraction for (let's face it, my attraction to you is unhealthy too, because you're much older than me and I have _serious_ daddy issues – I mean, after I found out you were a regular guy when you pretended to be my father again, it totally turned me on), I thought you would never ask me that question, even though, less than a month ago, you were threatening me with marriage and I used my underdeveloped womanly charms to manipulate you into letting me go! Of _course_ I will stay here in this place where it is very unhealthy for somebody to live, alone _or_ with a companion!"

"Wow," said the Phantom. "We managed to cut that usually chapters-long dance down to two paragraphs. And it saved us fluff! High-five, my darling!"

And their hands met above their heads, sealing their bond forevermore, as an ill-orchestrated sequel would later say.

Two weeks after Christine moved into the Phantom's house – because he had, as a matter of course, dropped all his plans to accommodate the girl who had broken his heart several times in succession over the course of one very eventful evening involving masks, deceit and that same engagement ring – they were in separate parts of the house. Of course, the Phantom had a normal house too. It was just hidden very cleverly among the rocks of his home.

Christine was casually sitting in the bedroom. Suddenly, she decided to go to sleep, leaving the Phantom composing on the pipe organ inside his house. Because twenty thousand francs a month was enough for him to afford such things. And it wasn't even slightly excessive.

The young soprano dreamt of terrible, nameless beasts chasing her (let's just say for the sake of the matter that she was running in a Coney Island scene from three mutants by the names of Fleck, Gangle and Squelch) and she woke in a cold sweat. She ran to Erik's- oh, excuse me, I mean she ran to the Phantom's side (we must remember the film never mentioning the name "Erik") and she cried openly into his chest. Despite the fact that he was a recluse, this sudden contact from the woman he was obsessed with didn't even slightly faze him. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Oh, Er- Master, I have had such terrible nightmares! Will you sleep with me?"

A lecherous grin. "I would be delighted to."

She slapped the unmasked monster's face. "Get your mind out of the gutter and back on the script!"

The Phantom took out a script and pulled on a pair of spectacles, looking un-sexy for once. He flipped through to the "comforting scene" and mumbled as he squinted, reading over the lines. He could not do everything attractively, phangirls.

"Hmm . . . ah, here we are." he read straight from the page in a bland monotone. "Christine, I would love to comfort you. I have personal demons (which will manifest themselves as circus freaks in a few years) and they are haunting you here. But they are afraid of me. They will not hurt you when I am around."

She rolled her brown eyes which can be interchanged for blue ones if the story suits it. "Thank you, Erik! . . ." she got a blank stare. "Thank you, Phantom! Let's defy social boundaries and sleep in the same bed together. But don't get changed because you'll be unattractive and the teenage girls who love you will stop reading. The author does not want that."

He nodded and they traipsed off to the swan (or other aquatic bird) bed, because it was a much more romantic setting than the bland one inside the house. The Phantom briefly considered removing Christine's stockings in her sleep again, but then he was shocked: she wasn't wearing them in the first place!

They lay down together and within moments the young singer was asleep again. The Phantom fell asleep, content for the first time in years. And he knew then that he would be happy with Christine Daaé forever.

_**~ Fifty (Or an Approximately Similar Amount Of) Years Later ~**_

Christine and the Phantom were both dying. At the same time.

Their three children – Gustave, Rose and Aria – were sitting at their sides, singing and silently praying. Despite the apparent hereditary-ness of the Phantom's disfigurement, his children took after their mother; they all had dark curly hair and brown (or blue if it suits the story) eyes, but with pale alabaster skin. Of course they had married – Rose married Raoul de Chagny Junior, inspiring an adorable (but not really) spinoff about the Phantom and Christine becoming reunited with the now Comte de Chagny and the awkwardness that followed.

They looked at each other with adoring eyes; not even hinting at the resentment Christine felt for Erik – sorry, the Phantom – spending more time with his music than with her, and occasionally being abusive because of his mental instabilities. The Phantom didn't show his hatred for every man that had ever dared show his Christine the slightest kindness.

"Sing for me, my angels!" the Phantom said softly, feeling his heart beginning to stutter.

Of course the children, not even slightly upset by the impending death of both their parents, burst into a rousing and heartrending chorus of "The Music of the Night", despite its strong double entendres and innuendo, intended for seducing their mother. It was learnt almost as a theme to their household, and one can imagine the little Opera Ghosts (the Phantom could never be bothered moving out of his underground home, informing his wife that it would, for one thing, be too much trouble to move his organ (creating yet another innuendo rich conversation), and for another thing, an Opera House was a _fine_ place to raise children!) running on the catwalk above the stage, singing beautifully despite their physical exertions.

And they sang as their parents slipped into eternity after an angstless fluff-filled life complete with no unpleasant run-ins with the Chagny family and of course many smutty one shots, despite the fact that after about five years, they both got slightly less attractive, and it got sort of icky.

They all died happily ever after.

The end?

(Yes, of course it's the end, you twat!)

**xxxx**

**It's shameless and terrible and awful I know, please forgive me for the blatant lack of humour, but it was something I just had to write to rid myself of the dark writings I have . . . written. *raises eyebrow***

**Loved it? Hated it? Have a sudden urge to Punjab me?**

**Please do tell, my dears.**

**See you next time.**


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